Honour Bound
by Briar Rose Bramble
Summary: When Belle is held captive by King George's feared sorcerer, the Shade Durza, in exchange for her father's continued support, she fears all is lost. When she chances upon a plan that might save everything she holds dear, Belle must decide whether she is willing to pay the price that magic demands. Durza/Belle.
1. Chapter 1

Belle had grown up in the understanding that any nobleman passing through the region would elect to stay at her father's palace. Avonlea-in-the-Marches was the last great house before the Southern Wastes, and those travelling there or across the wide sea that bordered their lands, would appeal to the hospitality of Sir Maurice, even if he were only a _merchant_ king. After her mother's death, Belle had accepted her role as hostess, welcoming all comers at his side.

She could order simple suppers and sumptuous feats, plan balls, organise picnics and instruct the kitchen staff exactly what food and drink the menfolk would enjoy when they returned tired and dusty from the hunt. Belle could entertain ladies with twice her standing and three times her age, and knew the precise moment to fain a headache to neatly avoid the lecherous advances of elderly knights too far into their cups.

Avonlea had welcomed dukes, earls and princes, fairies, wizards and bards, yet none of these previous visits could possibly have prepared Belle for the agonising uncertainty of playing hostess to King George.

The Marchlands were of strategic importance to the king. The bustling ports and unspoilt farmland served to keep his capital city and his army fed during the lean years of war, and Avonlea's taxes were paid straight to the king's coffers, yet he himself had never visited the area before. Belle had spent a month preparing the house and staff in readiness for his arrival, yet the instant he had arrived in their midst, she had the distinct feeling that her efforts had been in vain.

King George was a cold, distant man, uninterested in galas or balls, and unlikely to be charmed by a pretty face or pleasing manners. He was only interested in ships, harvests, rents and tithes and inspected all with a jealous eye.

His arrival had been foreshadowed with whispers from the east; that the cost of grain had risen steeply and there were whispers of riots in the cities being brutally supressed. King George was cold to the point of ruthlessness and Belle could not shake the feeling that his presence in their lands would only bring danger and suffering.

Still, it was not her place to offer council, so instead she stood at her father's side, smiling and pouring endless cups of tea, hoping that the man would see his fill of Avonlea and leave them in peace.

Her father, well aware of George's reputation but secure in his own position, smiled woodenly as he gave tours of the dockyards and the arable lands to the south, and organised dinners and dances with the few noble families that lived close enough to make the journey. The King seemed unimpressed with his efforts, sitting in silence as the forced gaiety unfolded around him, one leather-gloved hand fingering the dagger at his side.

How Belle grew to hate that dagger!

It was ugly to look at, the dark metal somehow as cold and slimy looking as the bloat-toads that riddled the northern marshes, but worse was the feel of the thing. Belle could tell whenever King George was close because of the shivers that would pinch at her skin.

Yet if the dagger was an evil thing, it was nothing compared to the creature that it controlled.

True to his title, the King's Shade –_Durza, _although few dared ever utter his name aloud – was the King's constant shadow. If the dagger made her shudder, the misshapen wizard was enough to make her quake where she stood.

Belle's father had warned her to never look directly at the beast, and after disobeying his orders once, she was happy to comply. The Shade had vivid red hair that clashed with the cold pallor of his eyes, and terrible scars about his lips and face.

The servants whispered that once he had been a man, a wizard, but that the evil spirits he sought to control now controlled him, twisting him about from the inside. Belle had scornfully dismissed the rumours when first she had heard them, safe in her father's cosy castle by the sea, miles from the dark streets of the capital, but now, with the monster in their midst, she knew them to be true. Perhaps it was just foolishness, but Belle was certain she could feel the corruption inside him, the evil spirits churning beneath his skin

With the King, his Shade and a small army of retainers and advisers staying at the castle, it felt as if nowhere was free from the press of dark magic, and Belle longed for the day that they would leave. Her father did his best to make himself amenable to their guest, but there was no hiding his distaste for the King's costly ambitions.

"War, always war," he sighed to his chamberlain. "He won't rest until the whole world is held tight inside his fist. I just pray the upstart will name his price for our peace before the month is out and be gone!"

As Belle listened, she felt the cold tickle of dark magic creep across her shoulders and realised that the king or his servant were close. She could not share her father's optimism that the king was simply there to assess their wealth before increasing taxes or demanding more men. He had done both before without ever feeling the need to visit their lands. No, Belle grew more certain with each passing hour that his presence in Avonlea foreshadowed something far, far worse.

-x-

By the end of the second week, tensions in the palace were stretched almost to breaking point. The king's courtiers were demanding and rude, his soldiers a constant dark presence. The very mortar of the walls seemed to have become saturated with fear and decay.

Things came to a head, as Belle feared they must, one day over dinner.

Sir Maurice had invited every family within two days carriage ride, intending to bury the discomfort of the royal visit with laughter, food and song. Toasts were made to the king and his success in battle and to his long, glorious reign. The king sat in silence through it all, his grey eyes apparently focussed on the wall behind his host's head, barely touching the heavily laden dishes before him.

Despite his apparent disinterest, the mood was jovial, and all might have been well had not one of the guests raised his cup for one final toast.

"To the Lord in the West!" he shouted, wine sloshing to stain the tablecloth below. "Sir Maurice, the Merchant King!"

Belle sunk back into her chair as the cry was taken up by the revellers, her eyes fixed on the king. The sound of the cheers seemed to break through his apathy and his eyes flicked over the guests in interest before he climbed to his feet.

The silence that followed was so complete that the staff could be heard as they brought more dishes up from the kitchens. The guards at the doors – one of the kings for every one of Avonlea's – stood a little straighter, their oiled leathers creaking.

King George held his cup high and nodded his head towards Sir Maurice.

"To my host," he announced quietly, his voice carrying to every hushed corner of the room. "The Merchant King."

There was the distant clang of a pot being dropped and the ribald laughter of the stable boys at play before the noise swelled back into the hall and every guest took up their king's toast. Belle rose to her feet with the rest, using the confusion to slip from the room.

As she past the head of the table, the Shade turned to watch her leave, his ruined mouth pulled back into something resembling a grin. The air around him was heavy with the scent of cinnamon and cloves, somehow warmer than the already overheated hall.

Belle barely made it to her chambers before her nausea overtook her, forcing her to her knees. Her shoulders heaved as her nervous stomach expelled the rich meats and heavily spiced wines that had been so carefully prepared to her orders.

She wept then, hot bitter tears of fear and frustration. She had the terrible feeling that danger was coming to Avonlea and there was nothing she could do about it. In this game of wars and intrigue she was just the unmarried daughter of a border knight, just another counter on the board.

-x-

Belle barely slept a wink that night, only to sink uncomfortably into confusing dreams a little before dawn. When Matty gently shook her shoulder just a handful of hours later, Belle awoke with a cry, certain that the worse had come.

"Wakey, wakey, Lady Belle," Matty chided. "The water's getting cold and there's nothing worse than chilly water for a morning wash."

Belle pushed herself up onto her elbows and watched as Matty laid her fine gold dress across the foot of the bed. It had been specially made for the king's visit and was by far the most uncomfortable thing she owned.

"Hurry up, miss," Matty bid her. "The king plans to leave after breakfast and you'd best not keep him waiting."

"He's leaving?" Belle asked, climbing from the bed. "Has anything happened?"

"No," came the answer. "And nor will it if you don't hurry up so that I can get you into this frock."

Belle hurried through her ablutions and practically ran down the wide stairs to the east facing salon where breakfast was to be served. Even if Matty hadn't advised her where to go, Belle could have deduced as much from the sheer number of royal guards that lined the hall outside.

Thankfully she arrived in good time to sit dutifully at her father's elbow as he and the king broke their fast. Belle let the footmen load her plate with tempting titbits, but found that she could do little more than toy with her food. The prospect of the king's departure after so many days filled with stress and uncertainty seemed almost too good to be true.

_Please_, she thought. _Let him leave and take his soldiers and his Shade with him, and never come back!_

Breakfast was something of a non-event. The king made his repast in contented silence, apparently unaware of Belle's nervousness or the dark looks Sir Maurice sent his way. Once he was done, he dabbed at his lips with his napkin and rose to his feet, addressing the attendant who stood behind his chair.

"We will depart shortly. If we set a good pace we should make cross the eastern downs before nightfall."

Turning to his host, he smiled. "Will you farewell me at the gate?"

It was sweetly phrased, but Belle could hear the command in his voice. Sir Maurice evidently heard it too, for he rose to follow the king out towards the large entrance hall, Belle following behind.

Durza stood silently by the great doors. He never joined his master at the breakfast table, something for which Belle was profoundly grateful. She could never share a room with him without being hyperconscious of the magic that rippled just beneath his skin, lapping at the edge of her senses. Outside, Belle could see the vast body of the king's court and outriders threatening to overflow the large courtyard, all awaiting the king's command to depart. A groom was walking King George's black charger back and forth, keeping the horse's muscles warm in the cool morning air.

He really was leaving.

Duza strode to his master's side, coming to rest just a few scant inches from where Belle stood, and watched impassively as the king pulled on his riding gloves and allowed a page to fasten his heavy cloak across his shoulders.

Belle's father frowned at the spectacle. Almost three weeks of uncertainty and their guest was apparently leaving them no wiser than when he had arrived.

"Well?" Sir Maurice asked. "You've seen Avonlea for yourself. What is it that you want from us?"

"I simply wished to see the borderlands for myself. I had heard tell of their beauty." He paused to pull on his riding gloves. "My chancellor will advise me how your prosperity should be channelled for the benefit of the kingdom." He regarded his host with cold interest. "I see that you have grown very self-sufficient, out here on the edges of my lands, so far from the strife that has beset the other cities. I pray you do not forget who is king."

It was the moment to declare fealty, Belle understood. To kneel and pay homage to the tyrant king and be grateful that he had not asked for more.

Turning to her father, she could already see his pride – a pride that had already chafed at playing host to a man he despised – unwilling to bend at the knee and humble himself before his liege. Instead he pulled himself to his full height and glared down at the king.

"How could I forget?" he demanded. "We send every spare bit of grain to your stores and our gold to your coffers. If the taxes on the ports rise again we will lose all trade."

Beside her, the King's sorcerer shifted slightly, his long red hair stirring with the motion. His scent crept over her, a mix of cinnamon, hot sand and fire, and Belle swallowed convulsively. King George filled her with cold terror, but this creature, with his dead eyes and scarred skin, made her fear for her very soul.

"Father," she cautioned, her voice high and reedy. The shade turned to watch her, his gaze like a physical touch upon her skin. It tickled between her shoulders, causing gooseflesh to rise along her arms.

"No, Belle," Sir Maurice thundered. "The man must be made to see reason!"

Quick as a flash, the shade had crossed the room to take her father by his throat. Belle heard herself scream as she scrambled towards them, but her way was bared by the king's guards. She looked to her father's men, screaming for them to aid their lord, but they were outmatched by the sheer number of royal guardsmen. A gloved hand was clamped roughly over her mouth and hall was plunged into sudden, shocked silence.

"I think it is you who must be made to see reason, old man." The king's voice was quiet and controlled, but it carried easily across the Great Hall, in sickening parody of his toast made only nights before.

"I'm not afraid of you or your puppet!" Maurice retorted, finally giving voice to the disdain he's tried to hide. "These lands have belonged to my family for nearly a thousand years and if the people are loyal to you it is only because they are loyal to me first. You kill me and you will find yourself in the middle of a civil war with your supplies cut off."

King George raised an eyebrow.

"You really aren't afraid, are you?" he mused. "How every novel. Durza, release him."

Maurice fell to his knees, red-faced and gasping for breath, but with every ounce of his fierce dignity still intact.

"You're right of course. I need your support. Durza," he ordered casually. "Take his daughter instead."

Belle was seized roughly by the arm. She tried to twist away, but Durza's hold was unbreakable.

"My shade will take your daughter to his castle as my ward," George informed his host, his tone almost conversational. "Oh, you needn't worry, her pretty face won't appeal to him; he ceased being a man many years ago. So much so, someone will probably have to remind him to feed the little thing."

Sir Maurice looked like he would like nothing better than to throw himself at the king, fists first, but the sight of his only child in the grasp of the dark mage had him frozen with a fear that the king had failed to instil in him.

"Now," George announced happily. "This is what is going to happen. You will continue to send grain and produce to the city. A small part of that will then be sent on to the Dark Castle with instructions for your precious daughter to be fed. If the supplies stop, her meals stop. If you speak out against me or withdraw your support, Durza will kill her slowly."

-x-

Belle had no idea how she came to be in her chambers as she was certain that her trembling legs could not have carried her there. All around her was a flurry of movement as Matty and Hannah crammed her trunk with hastily folded linens and clothes. Belle felt herself swaying and realised that the tight laces of her fine dress were being undone.

"You'll need your warmest things," Morag, her mother's lady's maid was telling her. "They say the Dark Castle sits atop a mountain. Of course they also say that the Shade lives in a palace made of fire and ash, but those thick boots of his look better suited to dealing with snow than hot coals. Step out, sweetling."

Belle automatically stepped out of her heavy skirts to sit on the edge of the bed so that her kid slippers could be replaced by stout boots, before rising again to be bundled into her velvet walking dress. Morag led her to the dressing table, pushing her down onto the low stool before winding her hair into a tight braid that could be pinned neatly under a hat.

"You're going to have to be brave for your father," Morag chided her gently. "And for all of us. There's far more resting on you than some taxes and corn."

Belle blinked stupidly at the older woman's reflection. "I will be brave," she insisted. Her voice quavered, belying her attempted courage. "But I do not know what I am to do. He's so powerful. When he looks at me I can feel the darkness in him as if it were crawling across my skin."

"There now, that'll do you," the older lady commented, securing her hair with a last couple of pins. "Matty, call the men to come and collect the trunk. Hannah, fetch your mistress' felt hat down from the wardrobe."

In the new burst of activity, Morag pulled her into a tight hug, leaning to press her face against Belle's. When Belle met her gaze in the mirror she was shocked by the fierce expression on the matronly woman's face.

"Listen to me, child," she hissed. "All the stories are the same – the Shade is bound by his vows. A contract with him cannot be broken, do you understand?"

"No," Belle sobbed. "What are you telling me?"

"His word, Lady Belle. Get him to give you his word!"


	2. Chapter 2

Belle felt as if she was being crushed.

Magic was all well and good in fairy tales, but the red smoke that Durza summoned to transport them away had enveloped them in a vice-like grip, forcing the air from her lungs. Something seemed to tug at Belle's stomach, and her heart skipped painfully in her chest as if she had missed her footing in the dark. The pressure grew until Belle was certain that she would break apart, building and building until suddenly it stopped, and she was left blinking in the aching brightness of weak light glancing off snow.

The cold was shocking. Belle had left Avonlea in middle of a mild autumn, but it seemed that winter had already sunk its claws into whatever distant land the Shade had brought her to. The wind stung the exposed skin of her face and hands, pinching at her cheeks and pulling at her cloak.

Durza did not loosen his grip on her arm as he pulled her towards the stone castle that loomed dark and adumbrate before them. Belle's hastily donned winter boots could barely cope with the ice that had built up in uneven ridges in the driving mountain winds and threatened to slip with every step. Forced to watch each step with care, Belle did not dare look up until she had stumbled across the threshold, missing her only chance to look upon the fortress that she would be calling home until such time that King George decided upon a new fate for her.

_If he ever allowed her to leave_, she reminded herself. _Beyond her usefulness in keeping the Marches under his yoke, it was unlikely that she would even cross his mind after that day._

No longer certain that her legs would support her, Belle allowed the Shade to pull her further inside. Perhaps it was the cold or the odd light, but she felt numb to all of it, from the king's casual order that she be taken hostage to ensure her father's loyalty, through leaving the family and friends she had known all her life, to finding herself in the company of a monster at the very edge of the world.

She was vaguely aware of an endless turn of stairs, a long corridor and then finally a room with a fire in the grate and a large, curtained bed. At some point Durza must have left her, for she was by herself. Dressed in her travelling cloak, her boots still laced to the knee, she sank down on the bed and let the numbness claim her.

The next time she opened her eyes, it was morning.

-x-

Belle soon discovered that the Dark castle was as miserable and dank as its name suggested. The fire was lit constantly in her room, yet it could not drive away the cold completely, nor dispel the gloom that haunted the place.

The view from her windows showed endless snow and ice, broken only by sharps twists of rock. Her door was not locked – there was no need to restrain her. The only solace she would find if she fled beyond the gates would be a slow, agonising death from exposure.

No traders called at the castle and there was no village nearby. Food appeared on the table by the window with an irregularity that left her stomach sullen and confused. On occasion it would seem that less than an hour had passed before the tea tray refilled itself, other times she would fall asleep with hunger gnawing at her belly. Uncertain when her next meal would arrive, Belle would force herself to swallow food when full or fill her stomach with water melted from the ice that gathered at her window.

She had promised Morag that she would be brave, but in truth – once she realised that no one would come to her, not even the Shade – she had cried for three days straight, grieving for the life she had lost. Again and again she would remember that the capricious whim of a man had condemned her to her fate – a man for whom she had held galas and balls – and hot angry tears of frustration and self-pity would well up anew.

On the fourth day, Belle dressed in her favourite velvet gown, washed and braided her hair, and gave herself a stern talking to in the mirror before venturing downstairs.

It took her four hours to find her way back to her room, by which time the bowl of onion soup left by the window had chilled.

After that, the days became interminable.

Matty had pressed three books into the chest with her clothes, but the girl was not much of a reader herself and had chosen the three dullest books in Belle's collection, including a dictionary, a book of prayers for young women that a distant aunt had sent for her previous name day, and a guide to identifying the water fowl common on Avonlea's cost. Whilst the latter was beautifully illustrated, it seemed a little redundant on a mountain top several hundred miles from the sea. The dull ache it left in her throat meant that it was soon relegated to the bottom of her travelling chest.

Belle explored the castle more thoroughly, finding it very dusty and dull. The less used parts of the structure were almost as cold as the peaks and crags outside, and she took to adventuring in her cloak and mittens. It wasn't until she opened a door to nowhere that she realised that sections of the castle seemed to have simply crumbled away. In some places the roof had collapsed, in others staircases lurched drunkenly from the wall, leading to nothing but cold mountain air.

Amid all this, there was nothing personal in the place, no whisper of what Durza might be while he was not playing errand boy to the king. Belle wasn't sure if it was a relief not to be reminded of her captor, or simply sad.

_Both_, she supposed.

All the while, Morag's whispered advice stayed with her, replaying in her thoughts at the oddest times.

_The Shade is bound by his vows. A contract with him cannot be broken. Get him to give you his word!_

-x-

As was typical with life, after weeks of nothing happening, every decided to happen at once.

Just as Belle was beginning to feel herself starting to unravel in the vast emptiness of the draughty castle, hearing no other voice save that of the wind, Durza returned.

He arrived without fanfare, simply striding into the crumbling library she had discovered, as if he knew she would be there. Belle was so relieved to see him that she pushed aside the uncomfortable notion that he _had_ somehow known exactly where she was and ran forward to greet him, a smile of welcome blooming on her lips. It faded once his strange eyes met hers.

"You have been summoned to the capital," he informed her.

It was the first time he'd ever addressed her directly, perhaps the first time she'd ever heard him speak above and whisper, and Belle was surprised how ordinary his voice seemed. She had expected something like the wild wind that screeched through the abandoned halls of the castle, but he sounded like a man, and a cultured one at that.

As confused by her odd joy at seeing him as much as this new facet of his character, Belle dropped her gaze and in doing so was confronted with her dusty tangle of her skirts. She'd been exploring again that morning, wearing her oldest clothes, her hair caught up in a scarf to protect her from the cold and the dirt.

"Will I have time to change?" she asked.

"No time frame was given," he replied disinterestedly. "There is no rush."

-x-

As Belle struggled to fasten herself into a gown that normally required Matty's aid, she reflected that Durza seemed to follow any direct order the king gave, but was otherwise indifferent to his wishes. Not that it really mattered, however, when a direct order could see him level an entire village just to appease his king's spite.

_The dagger that controlled him must represent some terrible vow_, she mused, remembering Morag's whispered plea for the thousandth time. King George held that promise of servitude and wielded it with ruthless force. She hoped that wasn't what the older woman had meant; even if Belle could find a way to obtain the cursed blade, what could she do with it?

No, the more she thought about it, the less she could believe that Morag wanted her to steal the dagger. There were rumours that other's had tried before, tried and failed. If knights and adventurers couldn't stand against him, what chance did she have?

-x-

The capital city was larger than Belle had imagined and managed to be both overwhelming in sheer the scale of its size, population and noise, and simultaneously disappointing. It smelled, for a start, the city having outgrown its own plumbing, food took forever to reach her from the kitchen and was always tepid at best, while years of warfare meant that the rest of the population had grown so used to their food being salted or pickled that they didn't seem to notice the taste.

Worst of all, despite being surrounded by more people that she had seen in her whole life, Belle was left with no one to talk to. The handful of servants she saw clearly looked down on her for being the daughter of a provincial upstart, and for much of the time her door was locked, in case the lure of the city overwhelmed her good sense and her duty to Avonlea. There were more books, but her initial delight was tempered once she realised that they were all accounts of the royal family's political machinations.

Undeterred, Belle tried a few, but grew weary of tales of children seized as royal wards and married off to secure further fealty to the crown. Belle fully intended to make an advantageous marriage, or had until her sudden incarceration, but seeing the dowries listed like a trader's tally left her feeling cold inside.

The one place Belle was allowed, even encouraged, to visit was the Hall of the Clerics, where the Holy Brothers could be heard preaching day and night. A servant would collect her from her room after breakfast and lead her through the wide, tapestried halls to the incense filled hall, leaving her there until it was time for tea.

Belle used the time for thinking.

She had been too shocked and upset to take advantage of her solitude in the Dark Castle, but once in King George's palace her anger settled into something cold and malleable. She had yet to see the man who had ordered her kidnapping, but she could not forget the threat he presented to her family and her home.

It had been easy to dismiss the rumours when she had been safely tucked away in Avonlea, but having glimpsed the man himself, Belle found herself in growing sympathy with those that opposed him.

_There had to be a way to put an end to his tyranny. To the fear, to the wars – all of it!_

Belle was so caught up in her thoughts, her head bent as if in prayer, that she did not initially notice the hush that had fallen upon the chanting clerics. She looked up in time to see one of the Brothers raising his hand in the traditional hooked gesture to ward off evil.

"You cannot be in here!" he called, his voice breaking over the last word.

Intrigued, Belle turned in her seat to see Durza leaning idly against one of the ornate columns.

"I'm here on king's business," he replied. "But even if I wasn't, there is nothing in this world that could stop me."

"If not in this world then the next!" the cleric hissed.

Durza ignored him completely, his eyes falling unerringly on Belle, who scrambled up from her seat to join him, quashing her initial joy at seeing him.

_There ought to be a word to describe the feeling of kindred one could develop for one's captor_, she mused as she hurried past the scandalised congregation. It was wrong that she should be happier to see the king's pet monster than a whole hall full of clerics, but she was struggling to keep a smile from reaching her lips. _Although perhaps she would have had a similar reaction to any familiar face in this strange place._

Belle expected him to stride ahead of her, but his pace was measured with her own. When they paused at one of the many balconies overhanging the city, Belle was surprised that they both fit easily into the small space.

They were overlooking the drill yard. Belle had a feeling Durza wanted her to see the vast body of soldiers training below. They were certainly unlike anything that Avonlea had to offer and a reminder that the king was a powerful man in his own right.

"Please," she asked. "Why am I here?"

"You are a ward of the king," the Shade replied. "He wishes to have all his children close when he takes his wedding vows."

"He's getting married?" Belle asked, shocked. "To whom?"

"Some lowland princess." Durza wasn't given to shrugging, but Belle could hear the disinterest in his voice. "The king requires an heir."

Belle watched him from under her lashers, her face still turned towards the army massing below. Odd that she had never realised how slightly built the Shade was before, his power and his presence dwarfing his physical body.

"Will his heir inherit your dagger?" she ventured, her voice small.

The shade fixed her with a glare, and she dropped her gaze. "As King George did, as did his father before him."

"Oh."

It was odd, really. In a city ten times the size of Avonlea, the only person who would talk to her was the monster who held her captive. Stranger still, he seemed intent on humouring her.

He turned his attention back to the training yard and Belle took the opportunity to study him carefully out of the corner of her eye. If his story was true, he must be at least a hundred years old, most of which had been spent close to the kings of the land.

_What he must know!_ _If only she could ask _him_ how to steal control of him away from the king_…

Durza stood so very stilly, yet she could feel the restlessness of his magic twisting inside him; the cruel spirits that had wracked his body and twisted him into a creature of fire and darkness.

Her sensitivity to his magic was something that both intrigued and troubled Belle. No one else ever spoke about feeling the shifting, twisting power that chased beneath his ruined skin. Part of her couldn't help but feel that it marked her as special in some way. Her recent exploits, however, had convinced her that the mark she bore was similar to those painted on the practice targets in the yard below.

"What happens after the wedding?" On seeing the cruel smirk that twisted his lips, Belle blushed and added. "To me?"

"You return to the Dark Castle, unless the king has another use for you."

"What about you?"

"I go where the king sends me."

"I see."

Belle regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. She didn't mean anything by them, but from the bland look Durza sent her, it was obvious that he read plenty into her throwaway remark. Without further comment, he turned and strode back out onto the corridor.

She gathered her skirts above the ankle, scurrying to keep up with him. After a series of abrupt turns, they emerged into a wide, noisy reception area, filled with brightly dressed courtiers. The wide, polished marble floor was broken by a series of low, ornate fountains. There was a flash of colour, and Belle realised that part of the noise came from a flock of exotic birds that fluttered amongst the rafters.

It was part of the capital she had never seen before, the part dreamed of by young maidens and poets alike. Here the beautiful and the powerful of all the lands would gather to discuss politics and art, philosophy and fashion. Weddings were arranged over cups of dark, bitter coffee and battles decided over bonbons. It was the pulsing heart of King George's corrupt court, but despite herself, Belle was enchanted.

She would have loved to have lingered and watched the crowd, as bright and as noisy as the birds above, but Durza did not pause. He marched through the throng, apparently oblivious to the ripple of unease that bubbled in his wake, and past the guards that stood at the far end.

Belle scampered after him, almost tripping over herself when she found herself in a quiet study. The dark space was completely at odds with the hall behind. It was no cooler than outside, but something about the room made her shiver.

The only other occupant was so soberly dressed that it took Belle a moment to realise that she was being honoured with a private audience with the king.

She dropped into a hasty curtsey. As her eyes lowered, she saw the source of the disquieting cold – the cursed dagger, resting quiescently at the king's waist – and the skin across her shoulders turned to gooseflesh. It struck her again how odd it was that something as clammy and cold could control a creature like Durza, who seemed to be made of nothing but desert winds and ash.

Belle glanced at the Shade, wondering anew at the connection between him and the dagger, and the dagger and the king. King George caught the look, and something close to a smile flittered over his face.

"I could have asked him to have you here within a heartbeat," he informed her. "But there's every chance he would bring just your heart, within the space of its last beat." His smile faded. "In small matters, it's often better to simply let him do things his own way."

Belle returned her gaze to the floor. "Yes, your majesty," she replied meekly, not caring that her voice faltered.

_Let him think her afraid_, she thought. It didn't matter that she was terrified of what this interview might bring, as long as _he_ thought her to be small and timid. A frightened girl would hardly be worth tormenting further – or so she hoped.

Apparently the king thought so too, as his cold smiled melted into the usual blank neutrality of his countenance.

"How are you enjoying your time here?" he asked. "Nicer than the ice palace Durza calls home, I warrant?"

"Your home is very beautiful."

"If your mother was alive it is likely you would have been presented here long ago." He watched her closely. Belle could feel his gaze like the dank presence of the dagger. "Would you have liked that?"

"Very much," Belle managed. "I longed to come to court."

It wasn't exactly a lie; she _had_ longed to visit, although that particular fancy had faded before she was twelve. Still, King George seemed pleased with her answer and nodded to himself before crossing to the window and peering through the heavy drapes.

Uncertain if she should follow, Belle glanced again at Durza. The Shade simply smirked at her, his ruined lips peeling back from his teeth, leaving Belle to understand that she would receive no help from that quarter.

_A contract with him cannot be broken, _Morag had informed her_. _Yet King George himself had admitted that he could bend a command, only moments before, as long as the wording was open to any sort of interpretation. Maybe Belle was expected to find a loop hole in the curse itself?

A pity then she didn't know anything of magic – the study of the subject being restricted to the Magicians' Guilds of the north – and even if she did, how would she find someone capable of wielding that sort of power? The only magic young women ever had in the books she had read was True Love's Kiss, and Belle was fairly certain that you had to be a princess for that to work. Besides, with the best will in the world, Durza was not exactly _loveable_.

Still, he was far from inhuman. Unless ordered otherwise, he was capable of being almost gentle with her. He'd practically carried her across the ice to his castle and then up the stairs when she had been too overcome to manage alone. He'd allowed her to view much of the palace on the way to the king's study and given her some inkling of the king's plans before leading her inside.

_Unless he had been trying to tell her something else?_

Perhaps if the contract of the dagger could not be broken, another one could be made? One that outweighed the power of the dagger? It was so cold, and Durza burned so hot that Belle had no idea how one didn't simply cancel out the other.

In truth, it made Belle's head ache to try and understand the Shade's actions. King George himself would be an easier riddle for her to solve, and he had outfoxed a hundred generals.

"It has not been announced yet, but even as we speak, Princess Joanna of West Ridge is making her way here to be my bride."

Belle looked up, not having to feign her surprise. Durza may have informed her about the wedding, but Princess Joanna was not just _some lowland princess_, but the daughter of King George's last real adversary in the war for Misthaven, King Ronald of West Ridge.

"My fiancé has no friends in the capital," the king continued.

_No_, thought Belle, _you will have made certain of it. The poor, poor girl._

"You will attend my fiancé. She may appreciate a friend in the court, as I'm sure will you. You make take her sisters' place in her bridal party and be at her side until such time as she establishes a circle of her own."

_Yes, and report back to you if she so much as cries for home_. Belle bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from spitting out the words. _One daughter, held to ensure the loyalty of her father, playing at friendship to spy on another._

Belle clasped her hands behind her back and forced herself to calm down and consider.

In truth, it was a surprisingly generous offer. Were she a man, Belle would have examined it closely for the snare hidden inside, waiting to catch her, but a small, biddable woman wouldn't warrant such subterfuge, not in the king's eyes.

Although Belle had never been at court before, had never been anywhere without her father's protection reaching over her, she had been raised as a lady of Avonlea and as such, would make an appropriate confidante to the new queen.

It was her moment, she realised; to convince the king of her loyalty, to dismiss her father's defiance and misplaced pride and posturing, and distance herself from the corrupting shadow of his dissent. It might not win her passage back to Avonlea, but it could at least secure her a home at court, far from the cold and distant Dark Castle, with its broken turrets and empty rooms.

She could play the suitably chastened ward of the king. She could worm her way into the lonely affections of a homesick princess and live out her days in comfort. She could become one of the beautifully dressed courtiers that they had passed on their way to the king, swathed in silk and cleverness, attending balls and masques, laughing and dancing while the king quietly waged war on the neighbouring realms until there was nothing left.

For a moment, Belle let herself consider what it might be like if she were to say yes. It would be so easy to simply go along with George's wishes and slide meekly into his pocket.

Like her father, Belle simply could not bring herself to do it.

_It wasn't pride about herself_, she realised, finally understanding Sir Maurice's inability to kowtow to the king. It was about family, about the land they governed and the people who looked to them for leadership. It was about something far bigger than one frightened girl.

_There's far more resting on you than some taxes and corn._

"No."

Belle was not certain who was more surprised at her calm defiance, King George or herself. She'd certainly never spoken quite so blandly before.

"No?" he echoed, dangerously quiet.

"I am your ward," she reminded him. "You have a responsibility to safeguard my future. I am too old to be playing bridesmaid to a child of sixteen."

"Perhaps I didn't express myself clearly," King George answered. "You will do as I ask or Durza will return you to your prison."

Trusting that the king would not be able to hurt her too badly for fear of losing the support of Avonlea and trusting in the vague, half-formed plan that was little more than a notion based on guess work based on a feeling in her stomach, Belle raised her chin.

"So this is to be my future? Do as you command me or be locked away on a mountain top?" She squared her shoulders, employing every inch of her admittedly less-than-impressive height as she faced him. "By taking me from my family you invoked the crown's right of chattel and wardship, but you also accepted the responsibility that comes with them." _Oh, those dusty tomes had been most informative about that_. "I will not allow myself to become an old maid while you ride rough shod over my prospects."

It was the longest speech she had ever made in front of the king and by far the most dangerous. King George remained placid throughout, but his eyes become stony and cold.

"A marriage?" he summated dismissively. "You'd be so eager to place yourself in the hands of one of my loyal generals, would you? Don't forget that I would be the one choosing your longed-for bride groom, girl."

It wasn't even a plan, Belle knew, more like a wild hope, but it was too late to change her course now. Surrendering every ounce of natural caution, she placed her hands on her hips, praying to any and all gods that she hadn't misjudged the king's taste for cruel irony.

"You already have me shackled to a monster," she hissed. "Whoever you choose, no doubt I would see it as a reprieve!"

King George smirked. "You are a feisty one, aren't you? Marriage might well soften that trait." Turning, he crossed the room to where his Shade was idly adjusting the sword at his side, apparently uninterested in their conversation. "Durza," he commanded. "I have a new order for you."


	3. Chapter 3

The announcement of the betrothal of the Shade Durza to a young ward of the king was greeted by his subjects with either open scepticism or blank disbelief.

After the king had assured his court that he was indeed in earnest, the news engendered mixed feelings in the hearts of his subjects. Some were disgusted, some responded with bawdy humour, and some were relieved to have been spared a fate they weren't even aware existed until it befell poor Lady Isabella of Avonlea in the Marches. The Shade had long been an implicit threat in all dealings with King George, but _never_ as far as anyone's daughters were concerned before.

It was this, more than any rumoured martial cruelty, which revealed how just how far the king was willing to go in the subjugation of his people. It sat uneasily with them, a queasy blend of guilty relief and a quiet certainty that there was something rotten at the very heart of Misthaven.

-x-

Princess Joanna arrived quietly one morning, slipping into the city along with the merchants who arrived at dawn to set up their market stalls, and on into the castle like a ghost. If Belle had hoped that the arrival of the new queen would deflect attention away from her, she was destined to be disappointed. The king's mouse-like fiancée stayed in her rooms and out of sight. It was rumoured that the king hadn't bothered to welcome her to her new home and would be unlike to see her until the royal wedding. Belle could only hope that he had found another young woman to be a companion to her rather than letting her wait for her wedding alone. After all, Belle knew what it was like to be frightened, alone and subject to the capricious whim of the king.

Unlike King Ronald, the king's future father-in-law, still safely ensconced behind his castle walls in the Southlands, nothing Sir Maurice's advisors said could keep him from making the journey to the capital once the news reached Avonlea of his daughter's betrothal. Worryingly, King George was happy for him to visit and Belle feared that her father would find it much, much harder to leave.

Yet, _if_ her plan succeeded, her father would not be forced to suffer the king's hospitality for long. Perhaps poor little Joanna could be returned to her family, unscathed. Perhaps all the wars and plotting and machinations could just _stop_.

It was this thought that brought home the enormity of what she was attempting; it was no longer about just her, perhaps not even about her father or Avonlea, but something bigger still. King George had moved beyond the calculating coldness of his forebears and become something else, his very heart twisted and black. It was this new understanding that allowed Belle to be meek and biddable as her wedding was planned around her, standing serenely for each fitting of her heavy bridal gown and enduring the whispers and sidelong glances that followed her through the palace as she waited for her fragile plan to bear fruit.

In truth, following her daring outburst in the king's study, it was something of a relief to grow quiet and sensible once more. To retreat behind the armour of gentle good manners and downcast eyes and fade back into the background. Sadly she was not allowed; once caught, King George's attention was hard to shake.

Unsurprisingly, Belle was no longer welcome in the Hall of the Clerics. Instead, she found herself constantly surrounded by the older married ladies of the court – although noticeably none of high standing – ostensibly embroidering her trousseau, but mostly watching her in frosty silence.

Belle, who had been preparing her wedding linens under the guidance of the womenfolk at home since she was twelve, accepted her punishment and her jailors in silence. She'd seen neither the king nor the Shade since the hasty betrothal, for which she was glad. The king still terrified her, but without Durza's menacing presence it was far easier to ignore what was unfolding. Easier to pretend that hadn't gambled her future, and quite possibly her life, on marriage to a monster.

-x-

Without magic to carry him, it look several long days for news to reach Avonlea and almost a week's hard travel for Sir Maurice to reach his daughter. He arrived suddenly, smelling strongly of dust and horses, having not paused on his way from the stables to her rooms.

Belle was quietly adding a border of hollyhocks to a handkerchief when he stormed into her rooms, all sense of propriety left behind him in dust of the road. He scooped her up into his arms as if she were still his little girl, crushing her to his chest, blind to the disapproving looks of her companions. For her part, Belle clung to him, allowing herself to pretend, just for a moment, that it was within his power to rescue her.

"I won't allow it!" he hissed, his lips pressed to her hair, thankfully muffling his words. "Married to a Shade? That monster? It's obscene!"

When Belle did not reply straight away, he released her, catching her hands to hold her still so that he could study her face.

"Belle, darling, what are you doing?" he begged, his normally rosy cheeks growing pale.

"What my king commands," she answered carefully, throwing a pointed look at the nondescript woman sat sewing near them.

"The _king_—" he began, his tone derisive.

Her glance at the other women, all paused in their tasks to listen to the exchange, was all Belle needed to interrupt him before he could speak his mind.

"Father," she chided, her voice pitched to carry across the room, before tightening her grip on his fingers. "Father," she repeated, her face hard, ignoring his protestations. "The king is allowing me to choose who marries us and I want Friar Arran to officiate. This has to be a proper Marchlands wedding, traditional vows over rings and a handfasting. Like your and mother's wedding, understand?"

Maurice and Colette had been married by a wise woman under a full moon, Colette's parents not approving of the match. Maurice had been a younger son and Colette had been promised to another, so they had spoken their vows in secret. Belle hoped that the comparison was incongruous enough for her father to realise that there was something he wasn't being told; something that he _couldn't_ be told in front of a room full of strangers. Mostly Belle simply needed him to understand that she would not allow him to interfere, apologies and explanations could wait

In silence, Maurice stepped back and studied her, noting the stubborn set of her jaw. Belle could tell from his face that he was seeing something new in his daughter and that it did not give him comfort. All the bluster seemed to fall from him then, leaving him somehow smaller than before. He squeezed her hands between his, his countenance grave.

"Be careful, my child. I don't know what you are attempting, but I know it's a dangerous path."

Belle tugged on his hands until she was once more enveloped in his embrace. "I know, papa," she whispered, "I know."

The idea of the Shade taking a wife seemed to inspire equal parts disgust and fascination in the denizens of the capital, and the courtyard outside the palace was flooded with spectators. They were destined to be frustrated in their efforts, as the ceremony was confined to a small anteroom in the west wing, the king's clerics being unwilling to countenance such a match taking place in their illustrious Hall. Luckily Friar Arran represented an older order and had been persuaded to preside over the wedding.

It did not escape Belle's notice that his face was pinched tight throughout, nor that his gaze frequently flicked to where Morag was sat amongst her father's advisors, resentment marring his usually placid countenance. Morag ignored him as she observed the young bride, nodding tightly when Belle caught her eye.

For once, being small and female had its advantages. There was no need for Belle to act the part of timid maiden when she was so terrible unsure. Wary of her captor-turned-bridegroom, afraid of a wedding night that was the subject of so much salacious gossip, terrified of what might happen if her plan were to fail. So she stood stiff and small in her new gown, her hair pinned uncomfortably back in the style of the capital, every inch the ward of a powerful king.

Durza, on the other hand, had made no special effort with his appearance and Belle found that she was glad; he looked strange enough in his usual garb, he'd have looked positively grotesque dressed in satin and velvet. Standing next to him, she was aware once more of the feel of his magic and the odd, hot scent of him, still noticeable above the flowers she carried. It was a reminder – not that she needed one – of his utter strangeness.

It was the first time she had seen him since her outburst in the king's study, and she was relieved to find that did not appear to be angry with her. She had called him a monster, after all. She was surprised by just how much she wished she could apologise to him – her words had been meant to antagonise the king, not to hurt him. Belle had no idea whether the Shade even had feelings to hurt, and besides, it would be too dangerous for him to have even an inkling of her plan before she was certain of her victory. So, she bit her tongue and focussed her attention on the ceremony instead, lest she stumble over her vows.

The words were simple, traditional to the Marchlands, and plain, the bride and groom promising to love, honour and obey one another. The ceremony itself took barely twenty minutes and there was no feast afterwards. It was understood by all in attendance that there was no reason for celebration; the bride was pale and afraid, the groom disinterested and the bride's family heartbroken and bewildered at the sudden turn their fortunes had taken.

The only person who seemed to be enjoying themselves was King George. He'd arrived at the last moment to give Belle away in person, taking perverse satisfaction in plucking her hand from her father's grip and leading her towards the fiancé he had selected for her.

"There is a lesson here," he murmured as he handed her over. "Think on that tonight."

Belle gripped her posy tightly, not daring to look up in case he saw the anger building inside her. It wasn't until he stepped away that she realised she was holding onto Durza with equal force, her nails biting into his pallid skin.

_His skin felt like skin_, she realised, albeit unnaturally warm. This discovery somehow allowed her to relax her grip, holding him loosely until the service was over. He barely acknowledged her, just repeated his vows at the Friar's behest and waited patiently as she slid the plain gold ring onto his finger. Arran used the cord from his robes to bind their hands together before presenting them to the congregation as man and wife.

Belle took a deep, steadying breath and turned to face the room, hoping desperately to speak with Morag one last time before her wedding night.

"Take your bride away and enjoy her," the king ordered carelessly before she could move, throwing the command to his Shade like a titbit to a favoured dog. "Just see that there is no lasting damage."

The crushing press of smoke and magic was less alarming this time, but no less unpleasant. Belle caught a final glimpse of her father's pale, heartsick face before the world span into darkness.

-x-

They landed in the dusty Great Hall of the tumbledown castle. Belle clutched at her new husband's arm, struggling to catch her breath after their dizzying arrival. Durza stood still and impassive at her side, watching her with pale eyes, yet Belle had the feeling that he was coiled tight beneath his skin.

Although she had long been conscious of his power, Belle had never dared to examine it too closely. Now, she reached out with a part of herself that she barely understood, to see if she could discern any additional magic binding them together, half afraid that it might feel like the cold authority of King George's dagger.

There was nothing there.

A chill filled Belle's veins that had nothing to do with their icy surroundings and she tried again. Durza was there, all fire and embers, still entirely unknown and unknowable.

_She had failed._

Oh gods, she had failed. Her clever little plan had proven worthless, leaving her trapped in an unwanted marriage and her father and his advisors as unwilling guests in the King's palace. And based on what? The counsel of her mother's old maid? What did Morag know of Dark magic?

A small sob escaped her throat as frantic despair welled up inside her. King George had been right, she _was_ just a silly girl. How had she ever thought that she might stand against him?

She staggered, her bride groom's grip on her arm the only thing keeping her upright. Durza tilted his head to one side as he brought his other hand up to steady her.

"Lady?" he asked. His voice was so very human-sounding when he spoke to her; nothing like the stories.

Belle should have known not to put her faith in the tales old women told about him.

She met his gaze, an odd sort of resigned apathy easily overriding the last of her fear of him, even as she was caught in his embrace. "You are my husband now, correct?"

There was a long silence before he answered in which Belle could count the beats of her heart though the blood pulsing at her throat and rushing behind her ears.

The pause gave her the slightest cause for hope. This Durza gave no impression of being chained by magic, but then he never had. He'd obeyed King George's every order, but never with the least hint of servitude. Indeed, Belle suspected that if he was ever free, Durza's first victim would be the hands that had controlled his dagger. The thought didn't comfort her.

_But perhaps, perhaps—_

"Not quite yet, my lady," he replied at last. "You see, here are words and then," he paused, allowing his eyes to wander across the tightly cinched fabric of her gown, "there are deeds."

Belle blinked, then felt herself flush as his meaning sank in.

_Oh._

She nodded slowly. Of course Durza did not consider her to be his wife; a marriage was not legally binding until consummated, something she had known from the outset and somehow half-forgotten in her frantic scheming.

Apparently one had to be very specific in one's dealings with a Shade. Belle had foolishly believed that the oath alone would have bound him to her, yet the law was clear. You spoke your vows in front of family, friends and gods, and in some cases signed your name to a contract. The kiss, which had been omitted from her own wedding, was symbolic of the second part of the deal – the physical joining of man and wife.

The sensation of relief was overwhelming, and Belle sank beneath it until she realised that her nose was pressed the stiff brocade of his jerkin.

She pulled back at once, catching the odd look on his pale face. Durza released her immediately, his hands falling to his sides.

A glance through the high windows at the sky over the ruined battlements told her that the sun had already sunk below the horizon. It had been late afternoon when she had entered the anteroom with her father but the day could not have progressed much beyond dinner time.

Belle knew she would not be able to eat a bite, even if Durza remembered that she needed to be fed; not while she had no way of knowing if her gamble would succeed, not with this wild, giddy sense of possibility fluttering in her stomach. A possibility so enormous and so delicate that Belle feared that it might collapse upon itself if she dared to study it too closely, like a cake taken from the oven before it was ready.

Not when so little stood between her and the possibility of seeing the king lose his favourite weapon.

Which just left the minor technicality of her wedding night.

Durza continued to watch her in silence, apparently waiting for her to speak. For once, Belle was at a loss. Pretty manners were all well and good when playing hostess at a tea party, but they were next to useless here. She knew a thousand ways to gently deflect unwanted male attentions; it had never occurred to her that she might need to learn how to encourage them.

"Take her away and enjoy her," the king had commanded, yet her they stood, in a draughty hall that smelled of dust and wood smoke. Either Durza was using the lack of timeframe in the order to delay things, or he simply found enjoyment in watching her shift awkwardly from foot to foot.

"It's late," she announced at last to the floor. "I would retire."

Durza did not reply, but simply inclined his head. either in acknowledgement or inquiry. Either way, Belle took the opportunity to gather her heavy skirts and head for the twisting staircase, feeling his eyes on her as she left the room.

Back in her old chamber, Belle realised didn't know if she was more nervous of what would happen when Durza chose to join her, or what it would mean for herself and her family if he did not. The marriage bed had always played a somewhat hazy role in her future and she had never paused to consider what it might mean for the wedding she had tricked the king into ordering. The sudden reality of her situation was beyond all her careful planning.

She undressed for bed, her fingers fumbling at each knot and clasp, pulling her nightgown over her head in a rush, lest her bridegroom arrive and find her in a state of undress. She left her wedding gown draped over her trousseau chest, indifferent to any creases it might acquire overnight.

The fire burnt brightly in the grate, but Belle still shivered as she climbed beneath the covers of her bed.

With no bell to track the hour, or the footsteps of servants in the passage outside her chamber, she had no way of judging the passing of time save for the unexpected hunger that began to tug at the edge of her consciousness, distracting her from doubts that plagued her; she hadn't been able to face the thought of breakfast, but now she was decidedly peckish. She ignored the sensation, and after a time an odd sort of drowsiness crept over her. Her eyelids grew heavy and she sank back against the pillows, fighting to keep her eyes open.

All drowsiness fled the instant the heavy door to her chamber creaked open.

Durza paused at the threshold, his odd eyes finding her easily in the half light.

Belle stayed as she was, propped against the pillows, agonisingly uncertain how to proceed now that her plans were beginning to ripen. She had imagined everything up until this point; up to, but no further.

As such, she was grateful when Durza entered the room and crossed to the bed without prompting. It was only when the mattress dipped under his weight that Belle remembered she was supposed to be afraid of him.

She was certainly nervous, but it was more a breathless sort of anticipation. In the brief time they had spent together, Durza had consistently defied her expectations of him to the point where she was now more curious than anything else. He had been gentle with her, patient even, and Belle realised that she trusted him with her safe keeping.

Crawling up the bed, he moved over her, allowing his weight to pin her to the mattress. Belle realised too late that the shift had left her arms caught beneath the coverlet, but before she could complain, Durza leant to whisper in her ear, his breath hot as desert sand against her cheek.

"I know your plan, sweet girl," he murmured.

"What?" she gasped. Whatever she had expected from him, it was not _this_. "I don't know what you m—"

"Now, now," he forestalled her, his breath hot against her cheek. "Lies don't become you. You would bind me to you," he whispered. Reaching down, he plucked her left hand from beneath the covers. "You would be my mistress, a band of gold on your finger to control me instead of a cursed blade."

Belle was not certain if a person could truly die from fear, but her heart juddered in her chest as he spelled out the bones of her half-formed plan. Even if it was only guesswork, even if he had no proof, just a whisper of such a plot was enough to condemn her father and all the friends she had left in the capital to a slow, agonising death.

There was no point in denying anything, she knew. Belle had convinced the king to marry her off to his Shade in the wild hope that an oath to obey her – an oath sworn in front of the king himself – would be enough to outweigh the terrible power of the dagger.

"Have you told the king?" she asked, amazed when her voice did not break.

Durza smiled at her daring, his disfigured lips pulling back to reveal jagged teeth. "The king could have worked it out for himself, if he had half a mind to." He let his weight sink against her, freeing a hand to wind his fingers into her hair. "Besides, I have my doubts that you would be willing to do the binding."

Belle swallowed. "I have already made my vows."

His licked his scarred lips, his odd, pale eyes darting between hers. "But do you know what they mean?" It was perhaps meant as a challenge, but Belle was somehow aware of the honest entreaty behind his words.

"Stay," her voice quavered this time, barely even a whisper, yet it was loud between them. "Stay and I will show you."

Belle had the impression that Durza had lived through so many lifetimes and witnessed so much intrigue and brutality that nothing much could shock him, yet her bold promise clearly took him by surprise.

Odd, that he had thought she would shy away from this.

She had no idea how long he stared at her, weighing her words, before lowering his mouth to hers. His eyes stayed locked with hers as he leaned into the kiss and Belle was unable to break free from his gaze.

It was like kissing the hot, dry air of a bonfire.

Belle gasped at the sensation, but there was no fear, only a sudden odd yearning to move closer and warm herself against his innate magic.

Durza's lips were thin, but surprisingly gentle against hers, like the soft press of smoke. As in all things, he was patient with her, kissing her tenderly until she moved her lips against his in return, hesitantly repaying his kisses with her own.

He shifted slightly, his weight shifting to her hips, allowing Belle to move her arms. She worked them free of the covers, and found herself winding her fingers into his hair, mirroring his touch. The surprisingly soft strands licked at her skin like flames.

Belle was certain that his touch was scorching her, yet when she snatched her hands back there was no blistering to her fingers, no redness to her skin. The heat faded the moment that contact was lost.

It was surprising how much she missed it.

Tentatively, Belle reached up to pull him gently back against her. Her eyes slid shut despite herself and she allowed herself to become lost in the welter of sensation as his mouth met hers. There was heat, of course – Durza seemed to be synonymous with fire and ash – but there was magic, too, coiling beneath his skin as if preparing to attempt the leap from body to body, like sparks jumping from a coal fire. Most of all, Belle was aware of the devastating softness of his lips against hers. His strangeness and his magic were almost enough to distract her from the feeling; almost, but never quite enough.

He traced his tongue against her lips and Belle gasped at the wetness of it, half-expecting him to be dried up like a husk, like in the stories about him. Durza took advantage of her surprise, slipping his tongue inside her mouth and stroking it against her own, and Belle understood that the whispered stories about him were _nothing_ to do with this moment.

She had been kissed before, but never quite like this. He weight against her and the warmth of his skin seemed to give every sensation a sharper edge, and Belle found herself aware of her body and her reaction in a way she had never experienced before. The skin on her shoulders and across her chest prickled with something similar to cold, yet she was warm, very warm. Her limbs felt heavy and slow, as if she was suffering from some strange fatigue, and it was almost impossible to muster the energy to move against him, yet something made her want to push back against him, pressing herself close in an attempt to still the restless sensation of her skin.

She allowed him to lick at her, exploring her mouth with his tongue and shivering at the resulting sensation. On paper, such an endeavour would have held little appeal for her, yet lying there in Durza's arms she found that she was not only willing to submit to such a thing, but eager to push for something more, even if only to find some relief for the odd feeling that tickled along her spine, leaving her vaguely unsteady and on edge.

When he began to end the kiss, Belle chased it, daring to move her tongue against his. The Shade allowed her, permitting her tentative explorations. His teeth were sharp, but his lips were soft. Belle could feel the raised bump of each scar that littered his ruined face, but rather than being off-putting, the feel of them caused an odd ache to form inside her.

All at once, Belle was forced to pull away, unable to breathe for heat and confusion.

"Is this a change of heart?" Durza murmured. "Not as brave as you pretend to be?"

Belle panted, trying to draw enough air into her scorched-feeling lungs. "I'm not brave," she admitted. "But I will do the brave thing." It was easier to think when no longer overwhelmed by his closeness and the dizzying heat of his kisses. "And you? You only let me try because you think I will falter."

His mouth became a hard line. "I'm a monster, girl. I don't need to be brave. I am the thing that people fear."

"You're a slave," Belle whispered. "Bent to King George's will."

"While you would be a fair mistress, is that your promise? Don't forget that I will be your master in turn. I will consume you."

He ducked his head. His kiss was firmer this time, fiercer, all softness fleeing before it. Belle surrendered herself to him completely, opening her mouth to him before he could prompt her. An odd noise tore its way from his throat before he thrust his tongue inside her mouth, all previous deliberation gone as he plundered her mouth.

If his slow caresses had kindled an unexpected spark inside her, then these greedy, demanding kisses fanned it into flames. He broke the kiss, this time, pulling the heavy quilt back so that he could join her. Belle was only conscious of the odd wanting that filled her belly, heavy and needy, and knew that Durza had spoken the truth; he would make her his and she would let him, willingly.

"That's it, isn't it?" she realised aloud. "That's the difference, the reason why you were willing to swear to obey me?"

His mouth moved lower, nipping at her neck and sucking at the sensitive skin at the base of her throat. It seemed to tug at something inside her, as if her body was connected in curious way, a touch in one place causing a stirring elsewhere.

"Because I will belong to you in turn," she murmured, struggling to maintain her train of thought as his mouth pressed lower. Although the Shade would not have control of her in the literal way that she had hoped to control him, there was no denying that he was claiming her as thoroughly as she planned to claim him.

Durza didn't answer, but instead tugged at the ties of her nightgown, impatiently working them loose.

"Because…" she began, only to have her breath leave her body in a rush as his mouth caught one of her nipples .The heat of him was extraordinary and her back arched almost off the mattress to meet him. "Because I'm y-yours."

He released her and Belle moaned, a breathy little complaint at the absence of his touch. He raised himself up to study her once more and in the growing darkness, his odd eyes seemed darker, almost black, and wide with some strange emotion that Belle herself was only just coming to understand.

Oh, the king was so very wrong about this creature. Durza may no longer be a man exactly, but the king had been foolish to believe that no passion existed within the Shade.

His heavy serviceable clothing had disappeared at some point, doubtless thanks to some clever magic, and Belle flushed at the thought that she had been too focussed on the play of his hands and mouth against her skin to even notice; somehow her preoccupation with his touch more shocking to her than his nudity. Durza was an ugly thing, his body wracked dark magics, his narrow chest marred with scars so precise that they could only be deliberate, but when he looked at her like that it made her breath catch in her throat.

"If you will have me," he whispered.

It was a statement, not a question, but his eyes betrayed him, darting between hers as if searching for affirmation.

It hadn't occurred to her that Durza might need reassurance; after all, he held all the power in their current relationship. That would change though, the moment they were man and wife. Belle would have control of him, much as King George did now. Perhaps more so, as Durza was _allowing_ her to take his loyalty.

"I will," she promised, surprising herself by just how fervently she meant it. "I do."

He nodded tightly, his face as solemn as when they had spoken their vows.

Then he was moving, fingers and lips tickling lower, and Belle's musings disappeared along with her nightgown, the white cotton slipping from her skin like quicksilver before him. Any reservations she might have felt about her sudden nudity were swept aside at the first feel of his teeth against her skin and the insistent press of his tongue as it mapped a path down her body.

Belle knew the words for what he was doing, how he was causing the breath to catch in her throat, having learnt them from the books kept on the highest shelves of the library back home, but for once the written word could not come close to describing how she felt. Instead she preferred to think of it in terms of teasing, beckoning. _Stirring_. The heat of him, the press of his body, the sharper, brighter sensations as he paused to lick or pinch. Belle found herself shifting beneath him each time the feelings became too intense. Each time, Durza would move his attentions to an untried piece of skin, and Belle found that the relief she felt was mingled with disappointment.

"Please," she begged at last, although what she wanted was beyond her. She needed the restlessness that filled her blood and chased across her skin to end before the sensation drove her to distraction, but she also knew that could not bear it if he were to stop. Her fingers wove themselves into his fiery hair and she tugged him artlessly towards her. "Please, I—"

Thankfully Durza forestalled the need for Belle to finish her request as he surged up the bed to claim her mouth once more. Without nightclothes, there was almost exquisite relief in the feel of his skin pressed against hers, yet still it wasn't enough to quench her restless want. Then his fingers were between her legs, and nothing could stop the moan that tore itself from her throat.

When his fingers were replaced with a blunter pressure, Belle stiffened reflexively, her fingers tightening around his shoulders. Durza paused above her, as if awaiting her protest.

She smiled up at him, reminding herself that of the two of them, he had far more reason to be nervous. Forcing her fingers to relax, she squeezed the top of his arms where his muscles were tense with the effort of holding himself still.

"Please," she offered.

It wasn't much, not considering that he offered a lifetime of loyalty and an unknown depth of magical power in return. In truth, Belle could not fathom he would even consider the bargain she had unwittingly offered when she was so ordinary in comparison. She would gain the obedience of a powerful sorcerer; all he would have in return was the company of a quiet little wife.

Yet somehow it must have been enough for him, as he tilted his hips forward, allowing his weight to carry him slowly down.

Belle ignored the part of her that absently noted that it was slightly uncomfortable, awkward and rather undignified, and focussed instead on the extraordinary intimacy of the moment. It was foolish to feel tender-hearted over a monster, even for a moment, but her time with the Shade had taught her that Durza was nothing as simple as that. He was capable of patience, kindness even, never more apparent than in his current gentleness.

Then he was inside her and Belle's world narrowed to the peculiar dialogue between their bodies, finding and establishing a rhythm, of thrust and counterpoint.

His hips were sharp points against hers and she shifted as best she could beneath his weight, bringing her knees upwards to hold him more comfortably. He paused above her, his breath ragged, as if he needed to pause to catch his breath and Belle took advantage of the moment to slide her fingers across his flanks and down his back, the pads of her fingertips cataloguing the ridges and dips of his uneven skin. Durza shivered beneath her touch, lips mouthing at her neck in something not quite a kiss.

It was in that moment that Belle had a thought that she knew she would always keep to herself. Tomorrow she would laugh at herself, but here, straining her neck to press kisses to whatever piece of him she could reach, Belle let herself imagine that there was no contract; that the kisses and the trembling touches were part of something far sweeter. It was silly; she had her reasons for this wedding, as no doubt did he.

But perhaps – and this was so unwieldy a thought that Belle was half-afraid even to think it – perhaps there could be more.

_The Shade is bound by his vows; _that was the basis for her entire plan, andDurza had promised to obey her, _yes_, and she him. Yet as well as obedience and honour, they had pledged to love one another. Belle could no more command her own heart into love as she could King George's armies into rebellion, but she had put her faith into the Shade's literal interpretation of their vows. Would he love her? _Could_ he love her? Had their simple wedding woken something in him that should, by rights, have withered in his chest many years before?

_What would it be like to control the heart of a monster? _It was an intoxicating idea, terrifying and heady at all once. _With Durza's heart in her pocket, she would be nigh on unstoppable. Nothing could hold her back, not King George, not the good intentions of her father, nothing…_

_Or perhaps love could _free_ the monster, begin to undo the darkness inside him. Perhaps…_

Then Belle's thoughts began to scatter before the rush of sensation that the Shade's touch invoked in her, and she was lost to anything beyond the feel of him inside her and the salt taste of his skin. She began to tremble, feeling herself be drawn towards some terrible precipice, teetering on the very edge. The thrust of Durza's hips grew uneven and suddenly Belle was consumed by heat and pleasure, her body pulsing and shaking to some staccato beat. She opened her mouth to cry out, but Durza sealed his lips over her, drinking in the sounds of her surrender.

He slowed his thrusts, drawing out the sensation until Belle thought she might drown in it. Then he stilled above her, and suddenly she was swallowing his sharp hiss of completion.

It was done.

He half collapsed upon her, his breath coming in harsh pants. Tonight had been the first time that she had ever known him to be anything other than stonily composed and Belle found herself dreading the moment when his cruel mask slipped back into place.

Shifting his weight to the side, he slid out of her, and Belle felt empty in a way that she had never been aware of before, missing the closeness of him already.

"Don't go," she murmured and the Shade stilled. "Please," she added. "Stay just a little longer."

"Is that a command, mistress?" he asked, curiously emotionless, as if all his fiery passion were spent.

Belle felt a distance thrill of triumph at his words even as his coldness stung. Then gold band about her finger burnt with sudden fire in response to his words, and Belle gasped, clasping her left hand tightly in her right. The heat was nothing compared to the Shade's blistering caresses, and Belle had mastered those.

She was too sleepy, too sated, and too confused by the flurry of emotions the evening had brought to fully appreciate what control of a Shade might mean. Tomorrow she would begin her campaign against the tyrant king with her strange bridegroom at her side.

But that would be tomorrow.

"No, not a command," she murmured, holding out her arms. She smiled sleepily as he settled back beside her, choosing to remain. "Just a wish."

* * *

><p><em>And that's where we shall leave them. For now.<em>


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